Illuminating Samantha
A Short Story
Most of the guys say that they just want to talk. That’s it, you know, talk. I mean, alright, yeah, they might put their hand on my knee and glide it toward the thigh a bit, while they talk. But, they’re still there – with me – to talk. They don’t kiss, or even try. Sex is not mentioned, well not directly. They don’t even approach the idea of having sex with me. It’s made clear from the outset that they’re not gonna, you know, fuck me. They might ask me what it’s like – you know – my job. So in that sense they talk about sex. They ask me how many guys I’ve fucked, in what ways, for how long, and where – not location if you know what I mean. Well, it is kinda a location I guess, ha ha, let’s just say it relates more to biology than geography, that’s if we’re going back to school. I know I’m not. I’m never going back. Walking contradiction that one, I mean I wasn’t going when I was there, or rather I was never there when I was going, or, well, you know what I mean…
Some of them ask me about women, like other women that do it, if I’ve done it to other woman, with other woman. They talk to me about their wives, even going into sex with their wives, which I presume is part of the issue within requiring my, ah, ‘services.’ Actually I don’t know why I ever said sex isn’t mentioned – cos, come to think of it, that’s pretty much all we talk about. Still, I figure par for the course you know, I mean lawyers gotta discuss the law all day. It’s pretty funny actually, cos I have, ya know, what they would call “client meetings” with a few of their kind. And in our “meetings” it’s them listening and me talking, me laying down the rules, explaining the way it works. And so they’re not – in that case – talking about law and lawyer-shit all day now are they. Lawyers are funny ones. They’ve not often got wives, the ones I see anyway, they’ve hardly got jobs by the state and sound of some of em. Scruffy, dirty-minded unhappy people. I mean the couple that I’ve seen lately, they, ya know, treat me all-nice. They’re kind. But they don’t think about what I think, they don’t figure I’ll say anything or judge them. Ha, lawyer/judge, that’s a laugh.
I listen. I talk. I tell them the truth, all the guys I deal with, I tell em what they want to know; answer as they ask. It’s the hardest part of the job. The part everyone thinks about: the actual practice, fucking and all that, that’s the easy part. You lie there and take it, you take it all, you give a little. I been fucked eight days of Sunday since I was 17. I’m 27 next week, so ten years. It’s no biggie. Always use condoms: no bag you don’t shag, I say. These guys, some of em complain a bit at first, but I always say to them, you’re buckling up before this ride just like you do every other. And then they’re ok. Most of my men though, the men I’ve had in me, they’ve never had a problem with condoms. I carry them, so what’s the issue, you know.
They talk most of them, they talk and talk, the ones who want sex talk about it first, they tell me the things they’re gonna do and how they want it and they talk during it. Telling me I’m dirty and how good it is and how great I am and oh god oh god oh god. And, it’s all boring. I’ve had it in the ear you know, so long, so often, well I’ve had it jabbered at me as long as I’ve had it jammed in me. I can’t say I’ve had it in the ear as long as I’ve had it in the rear, cos, well, I don’t do that. It’s just one thing I won’t do. Hasn’t caused any problems really.
|One guy was adamant that he was gonna do it, I told him he wasn’t, so he played all smooth – agreed before starting that he wouldn’t try it, then tried to take me doggie. I said he’d get a better deal if he let me on top cos you know he’d cum/I’d cum – he’d be happier, I don’t care what anyone says, whores don’t cum that cheaply, ha ha, I mean that both ways. I charge fair, and I am good at what I do, but you’re guaranteed an orgasm from me only when I am on top. I guess it’s good to feel it from that angle, I feel in total control of the situation when I am on top. Underneath I am still the boss, what I say goes, you know about stuff I won’t do and that. But on top I feel good and tight and in control and I cum, baby, I always cum.
But anyway, this wanker’s all telling me that he really wants to do it doggie and I’m like nah nah sorry babe not tonight eh. I’m trying to tell him it’s been a rough enough night and that I just wanna fully enjoy it and unwind, myself – you know. But he’s sure he’s gonna do me from behind – one way or another. And I shoulda known he’d force the issue. So I let him, then he’s all holding me hard and after a few jerks he’s trying to edge the snake along the grass towards the ass, right, and that’s when I screamed. I mean not a sexual scream, I fully screamed, I had to. I cried rape, it just came out, I don’t think it was wrong, I mean he was trying to do something to me I didn’t want done. I don’t take it in the bum. I don’t mind how many times I say it; it has to be heard.
Anyway, he pulls out and snatches his hand over my mouth saying shut it whore and all this shit and starts trying to twist me back over into his favourite position, and that’s when I grabbed his balls, with my hands, both of em, I mean both hands, but yeah sure I had both balls too and I squeezed. I yanked on those fucking ugly hairy things as hard as I could and he passed out. He completely dropped. His cock fell flat pretty quick and he musta lay unconscious for a bit and while in that state he lost control of his bladder and wet himself, you know pissed all over the place. Some of it got over me, we were in a hotel and no one – it seemed – heard me call rape and scream, and so as I crawled over him and wore some warm splash I thought best to just clean myself up and bolt. I hitched on my skirt real quit flicked my bra and knickers in my bag and buttoned up.
As I opened the door I heard him stirring, saw him rolling-to on the mattress, I thought briefly about what he’d do and then decided fuck it, he wouldn’t do anything. I mean I did consider with him coming-to right there that he might chase me back into the room or call up or anything, but I left anyway. And he never did anything. Never seen him since. He had a kid, 3-year-old-girl. And a wife. He was a suit, worked somewhere flash and big and powerful and I thought to myself after that he musta tried taking his wife up the arse and got the red-light on that you know. So he goes to the red-light, district that is, ha ha, and expects he’ll get flashed the green-light on the brown one. No way, not me. Like I say, most other things, you know blowjobs are sweet and I’ll swallow most of the time too. But not the ass, it’s not right. I’m a prostitute sure, doesn’t mean I ain’t got any standards, levels or whatever.
I’ve got a kid too you know, yeah she’s 6. Gina, she’s sweet. She lives with her grandmother. My mum takes good care of her and I see her now and then and she thinks I’m her aunty and that her mum died, but that’s ok, we decided that was best. So she thinks I work out of town on business, which, in a funny way – is true, cos I’ve been all over and I mean geographically this time! I’ve done jobs all over the place. But Gina shouldn’t know what I do so it’s better that she thinks I am her aunty, I am a special aunty though, I write to her and tell her stuff, make up stuff I do. And buy her things and we’re closer than any aunty and niece I’ve ever met. I have to stay doing it, got in to it for money of course, quick fix and all that, I was barely just past being a virgin when I started. Had sex twice, kinda, before going pro. One boy fingered me at school and I bled after, so got too freaked to let him stick anything else in me. Then I picked a guy up one night outside a bar. Too young to get in I was, but me and a girlfriend were drinking a cheap cask of wine and this guy told me I looked pretty, I think he thought I was a whore, he woulda been about 26 or 28 or something and he told me to do it at his place, but I took him to mine cos my folks were away. Told him it was mine. He obviously worked out I wasn’t a whore cos he never said anything, but I could tell he did think I was to begin with. I could tell all right.
And so that was the first fuck as such, but being fingered and bleeding, which I learned later was my hymen, well I still count that. So once or twice either way, I experienced no pleasure out of it and I’ve learned not to ever since. You know, I started just after I turned 17, and I didn’t orgasm til I was 22, maybe 23. Now I turn tricks when I want how I want and if I wanna cum I will, I hold out sometimes too, cos I don’t want to get to love it any more than I do. And I don’t think I even do. I just know it’s easy to do and always has been, ever since that blood went away when dirty little Pauly Clothier finger-fucked me on the grass behind the cricket practice nets. Since then I’ve felt next to nothing, and if I have I don’t remember, unless I’ve wanted to like it.
Some of the guys are nice: like bright and good to talk to and good-looking and I even considered dating this one trick. He was 30, I was 21, and he was regular. Fucked him, always on top, always orgasmed once a week for say two months. And I was tossing up how to ask him and then he never came back. Never saw him, never heard from him or about him, asked some of the other working girls I know, but nah, they didn’t follow the description. I can’t say I had my heart broken, cos frankly there’s not a lot of heart in this trade. Guts. You need guts. But there’s no heart really. The heart can’t breathe in amongst so much deceit; well that’s my theory anyway. In fact that’ll do, that’s my theory on this whole practice.
I’m Samantha by the way, Sam usually. Working name I guess you could say. No one knows though, no one asks…that trick that I said I thought about dating…he knew, don’t know how, but when he left that last time, and I didn’t know it’d be the last time til after a while later, well anyway, when he left, for the first and only time – that time, he said my name. “Bye Sam” was all he said. Not much to hang on to. And now I don’t even remember his.
I first wrote this short story about 20 years ago. It came to me in a flash - I wrote three stories in the one night. This was the one I was best pleased with - and it’s remained unaltered since it poured out that night, in a flat in Berhampore. Listening to The Velvet Underground’s ‘Loaded’. I had a giant desk, and a huge bedroom. My car had been stolen that week. I was staying up late writing so that, apart from anything else, I could sleep on the bus the next morning. I remember that vividly. My inspiration for this story - if you call it that, what I was trying to draw from - was the character Elizabeth Shue played in Leaving Las Vegas. Specifically, there are those interview segments with her, they’re threaded throughout the movie (it’s been a while since I’ve seen it - but I was a big fan of both the film and the novel that was its source material). I was imagining this in that vein, an interview-styled piece that I thought might be right, too, as a dramatic monologue. Something for an actor to practice and deliver in an audition.
